Canine Devotion
by BrazenMonkey
Summary: Does he know that, in the nights when she does not manage to sneak out, she dreams of a man with scars that speak of his past and his courage too, a man with dark hair, grey eyes and muscles like stone? A man, not like a lion, but more like something closer to a wolf?


**A/N: Hello there!**

**This is fairly new territory for me, since I did write before but never in the GoT Fandom. Then again, this just flowed from my head to the keyboard too easily to ignore, so here we are.**

**I only watched the series so far and have not read the books - shame on me, I know. So, on the one hand: no spoilering in the comments please, and on the other hand please bear in mind that this is not only in the TV show universe, but also an AU.  
In this AU, the Hound did not leave after the Battle of Blackwater Bay and his visit to Sansa. Sansa is in fact married to Tyrion, but this will all be obvious when you read this little story.**

**What can I say, I have a soft spot for Sandor Clegane. And I adapted Sansa a little bit to my liking, a bit more adult, a little less child. I hope you don't mind this little divergence.**

**I listened to 'You Know Nothing' from the Season 3 Soundtrack as well as 'Feral Love' by Chelsea Wolfe, the song from the Season 4 Trailer.**

**Feel free to leave your honest opinion, telling me whether you liked it or not!**

* * *

Her head falls back into the cushions as she gives a last exasperated gasp. The screaming pain in her abdomen is replaced by a dull throb and a little whimper is all she needs to hear to know the task is fulfilled. Numbing consciousness flows through her and she thankfully closes her eyes to the restful sleep overwhelming her, and she succumbs, knowing the septa will tend to the little creature.

When she reopens her eyes, she is no longer alone with her septa. The night's darkness only chased away by the candle lights, Sansa sets her eyes on the Maester standing solemnly next to her bed, her faithful septa cooing over the cradle in the back of the room, and finally her husband, Tyrion, sitting on the edge of her bed, his expression calm. Out of the corner of her eyes she can spot someone else, lurking in the twilight of the window, a silent watchful protector, _her _silent protector.

* * *

_It had scared her, to see the Hound again after the battle of Blackwater Bay. Shae had told her what the gossip of the soldiers claimed: That he had come back after almost deserting and had continued to fight at the side of the king's army, bringing forth the victory. His attempt at desertion had been forgotten in the glory of his successful slaughter of the enemy._

_Only Sansa knew he had not deserted, not really. That he had changed his plans. Because she had refused to let him take her home, had refused to leave as well? She could not give herself that much credit._

_But she also could not shake the feeling that she caught him staring at her more than often in the Keep, in the gardens, at feasts, whenever they would meet._

_And she had not forgotten his promise: that he would keep her safe._

* * *

Her tongue feels tired but she still manages to produce the sounds she so desperately needs to make: "Where...? Is... is he alright?"

Her eyes search the room, half frantic, for the little gift and without a demand uttered, a warm bundle is placed in her arms, squirming and squeaking, so wrinkly and tiny and just perfection. Tears she did not anticipate run down her cheeks as she sees her son for the first time, a beautiful boy with dark hair and grey eyes. Her heart swells with more love than she could have ever fathomed.

"Maester Pycelle assured me that he was absolutely fine, my lady." Tyrion's voice is as soft as ever when he addresses her and Sansa shyly takes a look at him. A twisted pang of guilt rushes through her gut as she meets his eyes.

Does he know? Surely he must know.

He must know she had been no maid the first and only time he bedded her, and yet he chose to believe her false act. He must know she does not leave their joint room for prayers in the godswoods when she slips out into the night and only returns in the wee hours of morning.

Being wed to him has proven to be less of a punishment than Sansa could have ever thought. It is a simple contract, binding her to his protection and him to her secrecy. He did not ask where she went – and she did not wonder who it was he went to. Maybe he suspected, just as much as she suspected who it was the dwarfish lion had given his heart to, but he did not ask, and of course she did not tell.

He must know. Why else would he have made the Hound her personal guard, removed him from Joffrey's inner circle of protectors to have him follow her as her personal watcher?

Does he know that, in the nights when she does not manage to sneak out, she dreams of a man with scars that speak of his past and his courage too, a man with dark hair, grey eyes and muscles like stone? A man, not like a lion, but more like something closer to a wolf?

* * *

"_Sandor..."_

_She kisses his lips loosely, and as much as he tries to keep her from doing so, she also presses her lips against the swelled scars on his cheek. He shudders in response and his rough hands, so much skilled in killing and torture, are even more skilled in running down her waist and the calloused skin feels heavenly against her creamy pallor, almost raspy, much like his voice. _

_She shivers in his arms, her legs wound around him, writhing in his lap as her breasts rubs against the solid walls of muscles covered in dark hair of his chest. She is so tiny and petite he is afraid one crushing pull of his arms will break her. But even if the seven gods themselves barged into his room right now, he could not let go of her._

_His little bird. His little wolf. Nothing makes him as dizzy as her. Gods, what did she do to him? His first instincts, the very first feelings he had regarding her, the feelings that had made him think of her when he had lain in the darkness of his room, were nothing but the raging lust to ravage her and spoil the someone so exquisitely pristine as her. To ruin her like her sheer presence ruined him, to take away the halo of innocence that surrounded that perfect young girl._

_And what was he doing now? Holding her in his arms, having her in his lap, allowing her to come back to his chambers again and again, even long after he had taken her maidenhood along with all she had to offer? Let her look at him and kiss him while he took her? Allowing her to stay in his arms, even after he had taken from her what he could, simply because he could not let go of her warm little body? Because the thought of someone else seeing her this way, someone else holding her to his chest, especially someone like the bloody Imp, ran through his blood like venom? Because he would gladly and in an instant kill anyone who dared to touch her?_

_He had sworn to protect her, but he had not protected her from himself, the dark dog that chased after the innocent little bird._

_He was lost. Lost to a little chirping bird with hair that made him hate fire much less simply because it had the colour of scorching flames._

_The Lannisters would have her head for this, and his too, after making him watch her execution first. If they were feeling kind._

_Sansa rolls her hips up with a soft moan of pleasure and he digs his fingers into her slender hips, attacking her neck with his teeth as they scrape along the pulsing heat beneath her ear._

_No-one will take her away from him. She is his._

_The night she tells him she is pregnant he loses his mind. Because Tyrion will know it is not his. He thrashes every breakable object in his chamber, rages like a wild beast, screaming at her until she cries and sobs and suddenly he finds himself at her knees, his head buried in her lap, a silent plea for forgiveness._

"_They will kill you." His voice is lost in the warmth of her thighs and her fingers thread through his hair as the last of her tears drop onto his head._

"_They won't."_

_His head snaps up, so fast her hands almost pull at his hair in trying to move in time._

"_You fucking foolish girl." he hushes and her fingertips graze his cheeks, both the good and the bad side. She never flinches from his scars, lord knows how she does it. It makes it even harder for him to push her away._

_The worst part is the fact that it is not even her fault. He should have said no, should have never let her crawl into his arms and let him take all she had to offer and more. But, like the greedy dog that he is, he had taken what he wanted. And now she would pay the price for his folly._

* * *

For an instant, Sansa is lost in her son's eyes and a couple of the tears she spills are for the fact that his father will never be allowed to openly claim his son, claim his mother.

It is Tyrion who breaks the spell her little one has already cast on her.

"I will leave you to rest, my Lady. We will speak in the morning when you are less tired from the exhaustion." He gives one of her hands a quick squeeze and with that he moves to leave the room, only to stop at the door.

"Maester, I think you and your aid are allowed a little rest as well. I am sure the lady will be quite able to take care of the little one by herself."

As Pycelle and the septa exit the room, Tyrion turns his gaze to the Hound, who still stands silently in the corner of the chamber, almost indifferent.

"Clegane, I believe you will guard Lady Sansa's chambers faithfully, as you have before?"

He knows, Sansa thinks and watches the Hound nod in silence. Tyrion replies with a nod as well and finally pulls the door shut.

For a moment, both wait for the footsteps to fall into silence and when he finally allows his act to fall, he gently steps over to Sansa's bed, resting on the edge where Tyrion had rested before.

She looks up at him. His face is still calm, almost blank, but his eyes are pools of melted black and grey. For a second, he looks as if he had never suffered the horrible burn.

Then, his twisted lips pull into an almost soft smile as he looks at the little sleeping figure in Sansa's arms.

"Look at that," he rasps, his voice a little more throaty than usual, "a little cub."

One of her hands frees itself from the grasp on her son and she thread her fingers through his, giving them an almost reproachful squeeze.

"Not a cub. A pup."


End file.
